


A Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure

by fel24601



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Chases, Dueling, Escapes, Fencing, Fighting, Fluff and Angst, Giants, It's the Princess Bride! Ya love it, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Miracles, Monsters, Pining, Pirates, Princess Bride AU, Revenge, Torture, True Love, as Peter Falk puts it:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fel24601/pseuds/fel24601
Summary: “Because,” Simon whispered, and leaned in to kiss Baz ever so gently. “This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?”The Princess Bride AU.(Hang on, Grandpa. Is this a kissing story?Yes. Yes, it is.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, my loves! The urge to write this overcame me last night. The fandom already has one, but who's to say we shouldn't have another?

In a strange little kingdom, on a proud old farm, there lived a young man named Baz. Baz was his mother’s son—clever, fearsome, unfairly graceful—and he spent his days living the poetic life of lovelorn youth. He was often found lying out in the heather, one knee propped up, a book held aloft in one elegant hand; or perhaps in the uppermost window of the house, face criss-crossed in shadow by the little diamond windowpanes, drawing a beseeching melody from his lute. But perhaps his most regular past-time—and that which he would vehemently deny above all else—was sitting at the table in the kitchen, in the chair furthest from the door, at just the right angle to gaze out the door to the stables. It was there that, sure as the sun, the farmhand could be predicted to appear.

The farmhand was a boy from no family at all, sent away by the last man to take him in. He’d arrived when he and Baz were eleven, though the orphan was shorter and thinner, and had a look in his eyes as though he longed to disappear. The boys detested each other from the beginning, but Simon had no place else to go, and so he’d stayed.

Simon had stayed, and he had worked, and he had grown taller, and broader, and more golden with each year in the welcoming sun. And as he did, Baz antagonized him. Taunted him, cajoled him, distracted him from his work and got underfoot.

Simon did his work without complaint, and proved a worthy partner in the verbal sparring that Baz became so fond of throughout his adolescence. As the boys grew, Baz began to wonder at the flutter that he felt when Simon reacted to his provocation. Began to note how the sun caught on Simon’s bronze curls, how more freckles developed on Simon’s golden skin each summer.

Soon enough, when he went to sit in the stables and recline as Simon laboured, the thrill became less in making Simon’s jaw clench, and more in watching the way his hands moved, the way he wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

Frightened of his own realization, Baz stopped loitering about where Simon was working, and instead discovered all the places on the property that had an unobstructed view of the stables. And in those places he would sit with a plausible purpose—a book, perhaps, or a half-composed letter to his aunt—and let himself observe and want.

He carried on this way, watching Simon laugh with the other help and wishing it could have been he who inspired such mirth, composing songs that all seemed to be about a golden boy in the golden sun, and generally feeling very sorry for himself. That is, until one unusual day.

The stopper hadn’t even been pulled out of the ink-pot, though Baz had been sitting at the kitchen table for some while under the guise of writing a note. The stable door had been open for ages, but it seemed as though every farmhand _except _Simon was working in there on that day. It affected Baz more than he would care to admit. He found himself leaning against the windowsill, watching, hungry in a way he couldn’t quite describe. He thought to give up, but hated the possibility that he would leave a moment too soon and miss that which he’d waited for.

The kitchen door flung open, letting in a rush of fragrant summer wind. Baz startled and lifted his quill.

“Well-timed,” he drawled. “If you’ve anything to say to Fiona—”

“Baz.”

The words dried up on Baz’s tongue at the sound of that voice, warm and low and still accented. He set the quill down next to the shut ink-pot, shame creeping in his stomach.

As he turned, he was accosted by the sight of Simon before the doorframe, haloed by afternoon light like the very portrait of a hero.

“Simon.” Baz schooled his face and his voice to disguise his racing heart. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Simon crossed his arms. He wore a white shirt, streaked with dust from working, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and collar open over the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat. “We need to talk,” Simon said.

Baz crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair. He scrambled to think up a reasonable excuse for his spying, but his mind was too full of the picture in front of him to concoct a feasible lie. “Must we?”

A muscle shifted in Simon’s jaw, to Baz’s delight. He seemed to be organizing his thoughts—Simon often took some time to put together his words—and Baz waited with feigned indifference. When Simon eventually spoke, he said the most unlikely of things:

“Why do you never come talk to me anymore?”

Baz sucked in a breath. “Excuse me?”

Simon dragged a hand through his tousled curls. Baz tracked the motion. “It’s just—” Simon started. “You always used to be there, making me laugh or making me want to tear your head off—”

Baz huffed.

“I mean it,” said Simon. “You were always there. And, well, you’re my one friend around here, aren’t you?”

“We were never friends,” Baz said.

Simon grinned. “Yes, like that.”

Baz was at a loss. He found himself standing, tidying up the items on the table before him. “Well, perhaps now you’ll be able to actually get some work done.”

“Stop that,” Simon said, appearing at Baz’s elbow.

A tawny hand covered Baz’s brown one. He could feel Simon’s breath against his skin.

“Tell me why,” Simon pled.

“I can’t say,” Baz whispered, for some reason.

“Because the strangest part is, once you stopped coming by, I _missed _you. Like a bloody limb. I never hated it here until you disappeared.”

Baz turned his head slightly and looked down into consuming blue eyes. He’d never been so close to Simon. If he turned more they’d be chest to chest. He clenched his jaw and did his best to sneer.

“Not your best work,” Simon murmured, lips curling.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Baz breathed. He winced at the pathetic, lovesick sound.

“You’re clever, Baz. Try harder.”

And then there were warm fingers on the side of Baz’s chin, softly coaxing him to turn. He went gladly, right into Simon’s waiting arms, and settled his trembling hands on Simon’s shoulders, warm through his worn shirt.

Simon was smiling, that roguish smile that had drawn Baz in from the beginning.

Determined to regain some sense of composure, Baz raised an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to kiss me, Simon, or was your plan just to stand h—”

It was just as much a kiss as it was an excuse to pull each other much closer. Simon shoved his mouth to Baz’s without elegance, and Baz took the opportunity to get his arms properly around Simon. That first kiss was all warmth, and the next was all softness. Baz slid his fingers into Simon’s hair. Simon held Baz’s jaw in one calloused palm. Baz had to open his eyes between each kiss to ensure that it was not just a very pleasant daydream. His eyelashes brushed Simon’s skin.

From that day on, life was happily, beautifully, gloriously different. It was frenzied kisses behind the stables when Baz pressed Simon against the wall and told him he was excused for the evening. It was lying out in the heather together, Simon dozing with his head on Baz’s stomach as Baz read aloud to him. It was opening the window while Simon worked in the garden below, and Baz smiling down as he played the lute for him.

It was perfect. Baz often thought that even if it had all been a happy dream, fine. It was worth it just to have felt this way.

And that dream did end.

When the leaves turned gold that autumn, Simon came to Baz in his bedroom and announced that he was leaving.

“You can’t,” Baz gasped, running his hands down Simon’s arms to clutch his fingers. “Please.”

Simon tugged one hand free and brushed his fingers down Baz’s cheek. “Only for a while. I’m going to search for my family. I have to know where I come from.”

Baz covered Simon’s hand with his own, holding it to his face, as he nodded. “Of course, of course.” He kissed Simon’s palm.

They said goodbye at dawn, shrouded in mist. Baz pulled Simon to him by the front of his cloak and hugged him tight.

“Take your time. I’ll wait for you,” he murmured in Simon’s ear. “Be safe.”

Simon kissed his forehead. “I’ll be fine. I’ll return before you know it.”

Baz clutched him tighter, and whispered: “I have this feeling that something terrible will happen.”

“Nonsense. We’ll be together again soon.”

“How can you possibly be sure?” Baz asked, unsure of whether he was teasing Simon or begging him. Perhaps something inbetween.

Simon held him, blue eyes blazing. His lips curved into a tiny grin. “Because,” he whispered, and leaned in to kiss Baz ever so gently. “This is true love,” he murmured against Baz’s lips. “Do you think this happens every day?”

The desperate little sound that Baz made as he kissed Simon was enough to make them both smile. Neither seemed to be able to pull away—their kisses grew quicker and more frantic until finally Baz untangled himself from Simon’s sturdy arms.

“Go, Simon,” he said. “I’ll see you soon, my love.”

Simon gave Baz one final kiss—on his hand, across his knuckles—and then he set out into the mist.

Simon never reached his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Snow, who never left any survivors.

When Baz heard the news that Simon was murdered, he locked himself in the stables, imagining that Simon was just out of sight, polishing his saddle with care.

He wept until nightfall. For days, he neither slept nor ate. And as he wept and mourned and drowned in memory, he became very sure of one thing.

He would never love again.

* * *

Two years later, Baz stood on a great balcony overlooking the resplendent city, the seat of the Kingdom of Watford. Gathered in the square were hundreds of eager onlookers, peering up with interest at the fine assembly.

“People of Watford,” boomed a man Baz had grown to resent, the chief advisor to the Crown: a man known as the Mage. “In a few days’ time, our kingdom will celebrate its five hundredth anniversary. On that sundown, your Princess shall wed.”

Baz glanced at the Princess standing at his side. Princess Agatha was uncommonly beautiful, and a woman of great intelligence, wit, and poise. Try as he might, Baz could not dislike her. Perhaps his favourite thing about her was how disinterested she, too, was in the upcoming nuptials.

“Her betrothed,” continued the Mage, “was once a commoner like yourselves. Though, you may not find him common any longer. May I present to you: Prince Basilton.”

On cue, Baz and Agatha stepped up to the parapet and looked down upon the crowd. The people caused a great din—all whooping and hollering.

Baz, dressed in the finest textiles in the land, stared at his future subjects, held the hand of his future wife, and felt nothing.

According to the law of the land, Agatha was bound to wed before she assumed the crown from her father. When she had declined to select a suitor, the Mage had set out into the Kingdom to do so for her. There, he had found Baz, and delivered him unto the Princess with no concern for her preference.

It was the law, and Baz was bound to his duty. But, though she was quite tolerable, and even a decent friend to him, Baz would never love Agatha, and it was well understood that she would never love him either.

Despite the Mage’s insistence that they would grow to love each other, or “see through their noble duty no matter what,” the only solace Baz found was in his daily ride. Not that he was particularly fond of horseback riding—that was Agatha’s calling—his pleasure was in riding out beyond the walls of the castle, to where the forest gave way to great, sweeping fields. There, he felt closest to his home, his mother, his true love. 

The evening after his engagement was announced, he rode faster than ever before out to the fields. There, he leapt off his horse and collapsed to the ground without bothering to tether the creature. He held his head in his hands and thought of Simon, of how the smallest look from those blue eyes could make him breathless. He touched his fingers to his lips and imagined he could feel Simon’s kisses—the firm ones, the growling ones, the agonizingly tender ones.

“Pardon,” came a gravelly voice that made Baz leap out of his skin. Whirling around, Baz saw the strangest trio he had ever laid eyes upon. Two huge, boulderish creatures that barely looked sentient, one much smaller than the other, and with them a cloaked young woman, arms folded, who appeared wholly reluctant to be there.

The smaller pile of rocks spoke again. “We are but lost travellers,” it droned, as though it were reciting a script. “Is there a village nearby?”

The woman rolled her eyes.

“No,” Baz said, voice hoarse. “There is nothing nearby. Not for miles.”

The larger of the boulders crunched forward toward him.

The smaller’s stony face broke into something of a leer. “Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” it rumbled.

Before Baz could scramble to his feet, the larger thing slammed a rocky limb down on his head, and everything went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eels. The Cliffs. A very strange duel.

The world was blurry, and salty, and undulating. Strange creatures, strange voices. And there was pain, too—a nauseating throb in his head. Baz kept his eyes shut and bit down a retch.

“You’d better hope that horse went in the right direction,” came a woman’s voice. “Or this whole plot was for nothing.”

“It’s going to work,” rumbled something. “The man said that it would. We kill the prince, everyone blames the Old Families—”

“Hush, you numpty. Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah, you’re more idiotic than I thought. You can’t say these things out loud.”

“You never said anything about killing anyone,” crunched a third voice.

“We were hired to start a war,” said the first.

“Yes, yes,” muttered the woman. “It’s a prestigious line of work, I’m sure. Though I agree, I’d rather not kill him.”

Baz’s stomach gave another heave, and he clutched at his shirt with clammy hands. Grainy eyes blinked open to a darkened sky. No stars winked down at him. There was just a frigid breeze, cutting him to the bone through his dampened clothes.

Sea-spray, he realized, looking blearily around. His captors had loaded him onto a ship. The rough planks scraped his back as he sat up and leaned against the rail.

“He wakes,” said the largest boulder.

The woman, who was sitting at the stern of the ship, turned and glanced at Baz, not unkindly.

“We’ll be at the Cliffs by morning,” stated the smaller boulder. And then: “What are you doing?” he asked the woman.

She looked again to the sea behind them. “Watching,” she said. The sea breeze whipped her long brown hair uparound her face. “How fares the prisoner?”

Baz’s voice had abandoned him. He croaked, “When the Princess hears of her fiancé’s abduction, she’ll have you all hanged.”

Certainly she wouldn’t. Baz doubted Agatha had the stomach for it, but they’d surely be locked up.

“Of all the necks on this boat, Highness,” crunched the small boulder. “The one you should be most worried about is your own.”

Baz shivered. Not from the threat, because nothing coming from that living pile of rock could ever sound frightening, but from the clammy, permeating cold that made his bones ache. He’d never longed more for a single sunbeam.

The woman looked out at the sea again, brow furrowed.

“Penelope,” said the large boulder. “You are still doing that thing.”

“I think someone may be following us,” she mused.

“Inconceivable,” said the small boulder. “Why do you say so?”

Penelope gave a petulant look. “Because there is a ship, just there. Following us.”

“You’re wrong,” said the boulder. But it and its large crony both shambled to the stern to peer out, as well.

In this unobserved moment, Baz pushed himself to his feet, and, before he could second-guess himself, he dove over the side of the ship and into the shocking blue water.

It was hardly colder in the water than it was out of it, Baz thought, as he called upon boyhood memories of swimming in the stream to propel his body forward. It seemed a decent plan, given that rocks could not float so as to pursue him, until something alive rolled past him through the water. His muscles locked up and he wavered, spitting out a mouthful of sea water.

“Oh, brilliant.” Penelope’s voice carried over the water. “I knew you were completely inept. Did you not think to bind his hands?”

“He won’t last,” said the small boulder. “Not in these waters.”

An odd wailing sound seemed to rise up through the murk, piercing the night. The sea was not as dark as it should have been—it had an uncanny gleam. Baz turned, for a moment, to look upon his captors.

“Hear that?” crunched the boulder. The wailing grew louder, rattling Baz’s eardrums. “Those are the Shrieking Eels. They make that sound when they’re about to feast on human flesh.”

A long, slippery thing brushed Baz’s leg. He kept swimming, until another thing arced out of the water in front of his nose.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, just come back!” Penelope called. Something hit the water. “Here—grab this rope!”

Baz gulped. He kicked again, made it another few strokes forward, when the shrieking reached an ear-splitting pitch and suddenly there was a mouth full of red needle teeth lunging toward him.

In pure instinct, he ducked deep under the water and felt the eel slither by over his head, and then he hauled himself as fast as he could back to the ship, slimy things licking at his ankles. Penelope’s lowered rope was scratchy and coated in sharp barnacles, but he clung to it nonetheless. When at last he was back on the deak, hands scraped, he dropped in a sopping heap against the rail and swiped his hair out of his face, chest heaving.

He hated to consider what Simon would think of him now.

“Foolish,” rumbled the small boulder. Then it looked to the stern again.

Penelope wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “The ship’s getting closer,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter,” the boulder said. “We’ll be at the Cliffs soon enough.”

* * *

The other ship was closely trailing them by the time flat, grey dawn rolled around. Penelope and the boulders dragged Baz off of their vessel and onto a barren beach. They’d had the sense to tie his wrists together, this time, and combined with a night spent hunched and soaking on the frigid ship’s deck, Baz was miserable and aching.

“Sorry,” Penelope whispered as she re-tied the bindings, chafing Baz’s skin. Baz peered up at the sight before him and ignored her.

The Cliffs of Insanity, they were called, and he guessed they were aptly named. A sheer vertical face scraping the clouds and reaching wider than his eyes could discern, riddled with dizzying patterns that appeared to swim across the rock. One eerie, solitary rope hung down the entire unfathomable height. It was this that the two boulder-creatures approached, carrying a huge leather harness.

His captors wrangled Baz into loops of the leather and he did his best to be unhelpful, instead watching the still, cloudy sea, and the tidy black ship coursing nearer.

“Never mind that,” said the smaller boulder. “Only our kind are strong enough to climb the Cliffs. Whoever that is will sail for hours more searching for a port.”

As incompetent as his captors were, Baz rather hoped that the stranger might follow them. Let someone else at least bear witness to this mockery of a kidnapping.

The large boulder—really more of a rock giant, Baz supposed, given that it was taller than any human he’d seen—strapped the rest of the party to itself, and reached up with mighty stone arms to grip the rope. With a heave, they lifted from the empty beach, and steadily began their ascent.

Idiocy of the circumstances aside, Baz suddenly feared for his life.

The beach fell away with alarming speed, making his stomach plummet and his lungs clench. The leather harness could not be reliable—what could, with this journey ahead of it?—and he had no faith whatsoever in the strength of the rock giant.

Baz was loath to vomit on himself at such an altitude, so he focused instead on the black ship, now sliding close to the beach. A tiny rowboat dropped from the side, and Baz watched with interest as a dark figure rowed to shore.

The stranger wasted no time.

“By the gods,” Penelope hissed. “He’s climbing the rope.”

_What the hell did you expect? _Baz thought. _People can climb. _

(Not this height, surely. But still.)

“Inconceivable,” mumbled the boulder. “Climb faster.”

“Can’t,” grunted the rock giant.

“Did I ask? _Climb faster.”_

They carried on at exactly the same speed.

Below, the stranger was hoisting himself up rapidly. He was clad all in black, right down to the mask that covered most of his face. He climbed gracelessly, but efficiently. Anyone could discern his strength.

“He’s catching up.”

“Shut up, Penelope.”

“This is madness,” snapped Baz. “What is the point of any of this if you’re planning to kill me? Why not do it here?”

The boulder fixed him with a stony snarl. “Use your head, nitwit. We have to leave your body somewhere you’ll be found.”

“So you’ve dragged me halfway across the Kingdom to the least populated area you could think of?”

The boulder frowned.

At long last the rock giant heaved them all up onto the blessedly horizontal clifftop. Baz scrabbled at the rocky dirt, trying not to appear as desperately relieved as he was. He stood as elegantly as he could with wobbling legs and bound hands.

“Give me your knife,” the boulder was barking.

“Don’t have it,” said the rock giant.

“_What do you mean you don’t have it?”_

“Left it on the ship.”

Baz rolled his eyes. He considered just walking away and letting his kidnappers quarrel amongst themselves.

“Fine. You—giant—hold the Prince.”

Baz sneered as great rocky fists encircled him.

“And you—Penelope—cut this rope.”

Penelope gaped. She looked down the cliff’s edge at the man, presumably still climbing with all of his might. “Certainly not,” she huffed.

The boulder tumbled over toward her, looming at her by the cliff’s edge.

“Do it,” it said. “Now. Or find out how long the drop takes yourself.”

Penelope’s eyes flicked to Baz’s ruefully, as though she regretted every choice that had led her to this moment. Perhaps she hadn’t even had a choice, Baz considered. He couldn’t say that she seemed cruel.

Reluctantly, Penelope raised a hand out to the rope, wrapped a dozen times around a tree trunk. She wore a large ring, capped with a glinting purple gemstone. She drew in a deep breath.

“**_Split hairs_**,” she commanded, and the rope withered away, came right apart into coarse, drifting fibres.

Baz’s stomach turned again, horrified for their mysterious pursuant. No one deserved that fall.

The boulder looked over the edge and let out a terrible crashing sound that might have been a roar. Penelope, grimacing, dared a glance as well.

“Inconceivable!” the boulder wailed. Baz noted the tiny curve of Penelope’s lips.

“You keep using that word,” she said. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

The boulder ignored her. “He’s climbing,” it rumbled. “He’s seen us with the Prince, so we can’t let him live.” It shambled over to Baz and the rock giant, furious and determined. “We’ll go on ahead. Penelope, catch up when he’s dead. Kill him if he doesn’t fall.”

Baz caught Penelope’s stricken look before the rock giant dragged him away.

* * *

For the Man in Black, the day really had gone much better than anticipated.

Though, clinging to that dreadful cliff face, stubbornly looking only up, he rather wished for this bit to hurry up and be done.

The woman in the purple cloak leaned against a rock at the top of the cliff.

“You all right down there?” she called.

The Man in Black grunted as he wedged hit foot into a crevice and pushed himself up. “Just brilliant, thanks for asking. And keep quiet—this isn’t as easy as it looks.”

He focused on the rock, on his gloved hands gripping the rough stone. _Only up, _he thought. _Just keep going up. Nothing to it. _

“Sorry—” the woman called again. “It’s just—this is painful. And I feel bad. Is there anything I can do to help?”

The Man in Black let out a grim chuckle. “If you can give me one good reason to trust you, sure.”

“My word isn’t good enough?”

“Look. I know you’re used to the company of bloody _numpties, _but _I _have enough sense not to trust anyone I don’t know.”

“I’ll swear on my magic,” the woman said.

The Man in Black ignored her.

“I really don’t have much else to swear by,” she added.

“Then shut up and let me focus,” the Man in Black hissed through gritted teeth. He pulled himself a little higher, and then found himself at rather an impasse. Nothing seemed sturdy enough to grip onto. He looked up again at the woman, sky-high above him.

She gave him a solemn look. “I swear on the soul of my mother, Mitali Bunce,” she said. “You will reach the top alive.”

The Man in Black considered this. He looked around once more for any route up that wouldn’t guarantee that he be splattered on the beach below, and found nothing.

“Fine,” he said.

Distantly, he heard the woman’s voice, and then a gleaming, un-scuffed rope swung down at his side. He took it gratefully.

Once at the top, the Man in Black cautiously slumped against some old ruined steps to catch his breath, one hand hovering over the sword at his hip.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “You can rest.”

The Man in Black eyed her warily.

“My name is Penelope,” she added. “And I assure you, it was never my intention to be working with numpties. Least of all in this…” She wrinkled her nose. “…unsavoury line of business.”

The Man in Black felt a growl rising in his chest. “You mean to tell me you didn’t _intend_ to kidnap a prince?”

Penelope fiddled with the large ring on her finger. “I only wanted passage to the Kingdom. But somehow I got wrapped up in all of this. You see, I’m looking for the man who killed my mother.”

The Man in Black listened.

“All I know,” Penelope continued, “is that his name is Davy, and he’s employed by the Crown. I hope to return the Prince safely, and avenge my mother.”

Penelope looked the Man in Black over appraisingly. “And what are you after? Why do you pursue us?”

Taking a gamble, the Man in Black told her truthfully: “I, too, seek the Prince.”

“You wish him harm? You desire a ransom?”

“No.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. The Man in Black’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“I’ve been instructed to kill you,” Penelope said, and the sword pulled forth from its scabbard with a rasp. “However,” she added, “my weapon of choice is my magic.”

The Man in Black, now on his feet, glowered, his sword raised defensively before him.

Penelope remained seated, cloak tucked neatly around her feet. “The way I see it,” she mused, “challenging you to a magician’s duel would be woefully unfair, assuming you have no magic of your own.”

The Man in Black sputtered, words catching in his throat.

“And a sword fight is out of the question, seeing as I have no such weapon.” Penelope drew herself up and looked the Man in Black in his eyes, past the soft leather mask he wore. “Are you quite good with your sword?” she asked, then.

The Man in Black gaped. “Er—well, I—yes,” he blustered.

Penelope nodded. “So should we decide to each fight in our own method, I should think that you would take the upper hand with ease—don’t you?”

A beat of silence.

“Well,” she repeated, “don’t you?”

“I suppose,” the Man in Black muttered. 

“Excellent. So it can be reasonably assumed that I’ve lost our great battle. I suppose I shall wait here, recovering from my terrific defeat, for some time.”

Penelope sank to the ground and leaned back against a crumbling pillar.

The Man in Black stared, gobsmacked.

“Am I not to fight you?” he asked.

Penelope smiled. “You already have, strange Man in Black,” she said. “And you were victorious.”

Confused and hesitant, the man subtly lowered his sword.

“Out of curiosity, before you go,” said Penelope, “who are you?”

The Man in Black tentatively sheathed his sword and took a retreating step. “No one important.”

Penelope smiled at him. “It was a pleasure dueling you.”

The Man in Black nodded absently. “A well-fought battle,” he offered. “I’m sure I hold you in the highest respect.”

Penelope settled down more comfortably and gave a little salute, and with that, the Man in Black tore off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle of wits. Poisoned hot cocoa. A prince and a pirate, and a very long fall.

If Baz had had the energy to care about anything in the wake of Simon’s death, he might have been properly terrified about his current situation.

As it was, he was irritated. Greatly inconvenienced. Quite insulted, but not afraid.

The bindings round his wrists were the same as before. The ones on his ankles were new, and tied much too tightly. They cut his skin. The blindfold was most humiliating, and the fabric was very dusty and made him sneeze.

The worst part was surely the knife to his throat. That—he had to admit—was unsettling.

“Finally,” rumbled the boulder, and the knife pressed a little harder into Baz’s throat. He sat up very straight.

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, someone running through the rustling grass. The boulder at Baz’s side shifted, gravelly, and made a sound as though it were clearing its throat.

Up ahead, the footsteps halted.

“So,” crunched the boulder. “It is down to you, and it is down to me.”

Baz strained to hear what was happening.

“If you wish him dead,” said the boulder, shoving the knife at him, “by all means, keep coming closer.”

“Let me explain,” came a new voice.

“There’s nothing to explain,” rumbled the boulder. “You’re trying to kidnap that which I’ve rightfully stolen.”

Baz snorted. If his mother could see him now.

The newcomer spoke again. “Perhaps—perhaps an arrangement could be reached?”

“There will be no arrangement,” the boulder grumbled. “And with your every step you’re killing him.”

The tip of the knife dug hard beneath Baz’s jaw. He sucked in a breath, and slowly craned his neck away. Foolish and humiliating as this situation was, he was acutely aware that he was nonetheless staring down his mortality.

Someone made a huffing sound. “Well if there can’t be an arrangement, then we’re bloody well at a stalemate, aren’t we?”

“Afraid so. I’m not about to fight you after you’ve defeated both of my accomplices, and you’re clearly no match for my intellect.”

Baz bit the inside of his cheek. Laughing would surely only speed up his death.

“Really?” barked the stranger, well amused.

“Put it this way,” said the boulder. “You know Plato? Aristotle?Socrates?”

“Sure.”

“Morons.”

“Well. In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

_This should be interesting, _thought Baz.

“For the Prince?” asked the boulder. “To the death?”

“Of course,” said the stranger.

“Fine,” the boulder rumbled.

“Good.” The stranger’s footsteps approached again. Baz heard him settle in close by. “Pour the drinks, then.”

The sharp blade of the knife was suddenly no longer at Baz’s throat, much to his relief. Then there was the sound of thick liquid sloshing.

“Smell this,” said the stranger. “Or—do you have a nose?”

“Of course I have a nose,” crunched the boulder. “Give it here.” A pause. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Exactly. That’s iocane powder. Can’t smell it, can’t taste it, and it’s a deadly poison.”

There was a long, tense silence. Baz strained his eyes as though he might be able to see straight through his blindfold by sheer force of will.

“Now,” said the stranger. “Is the poison in my hot cocoa, or yours? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you choose a cup and we both drink.”

Baz chewed on his lip. There was a chance he’d survive this after all. The ties around his ankles were cutting in very sharply, and his back was beginning to ache from hunching on this rock.

“Simple,” said the boulder, sounding very sure of itself for something without a brain. “All I’ve got to do is divide what I know of you—are you the sort to put the poison in his own cocoa? A smart man would. Only a fool would choose the cocoa he was given. So I clearly can’t choose the cocoa in front of you. But you are no fool, you would have known I’d figure that out. So I clearly can’t choose the cocoa in front of me.”

_Never mind, _thought Baz. _Just bloody kill me. _

“Great,” said the stranger. “So choose one.”

“I’m not done. Iocane powder comes from—”

“I don’t have all bloody day. Shut up and choose.”

“You’re rude.”

“You’re a kidnapper.”

“You think this little game will outsmart me? I already know everything I need to know about you.”

Baz wished for a swift death.

The boulder went on. “You’ve beaten my giant, which means you’re exceptionally strong. You could have put the poison in your own cocoa and trusted that your strength would safe you. So I clearly can’t choose the cocoa in front of you.”

“No. It was made of rock. I tripped it, and it crumbled to bits. I am pretty strong, though.”

The boulder went on uninterrupted as though it hadn’t heard the stranger speak. “But you also bested my magician, which means you must have studied. And in studying you must have learned that man is mortal—”

“_Everyone _knows that, I didn’t have to—”

“—so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I clearly can’t choose the cocoa in front of me.”

_Give me the cocoa, _thought Baz. _If I die, at least I’ll be free of this inane drivel._

“Stop stalling and choose. I haven’t got all day.” The stranger sounded increasingly frustrated. A bit of a hot-head, this one.

“Very well,” crunched the boulder. “I know where the poison is.”

“Spectacular. Choose.”

“I will,” the boulder grumbled. “And—oh! What?” The boulder’s gravelly voice took on a tone of false surprise. “W-w-what’s that over there?”

There was a pause, and a rustling sound. Beneath the blindfold, Baz rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing there,” said the stranger.

“No matter. Let’s drink. Me from, er, my cocoa—and you from yours.”

There was a horrible slurping sound as the boulder drank its cocoa.

_Oh please, _begged Baz, silently, though he couldn’t decide whose victory he was begging for.

The stranger slammed down his mug. “Wrong choice,” he said, sounding triumphant.

“That’s what you think,” said the boulder. “When you weren’t looking, I switched the cups. It’s the oldest trick in the book!”

The horrible, booming rumble took Baz by surprise and startled him. It took him a moment to realize that the boulder was laughing—almost hysterically so. The stranger said nothing, and Baz continued to stare at the darkness inside his blindfold, until the laughter abruptly ceased, and there was the mighty sound of rock crumbling.

Then gloved hands were at the side of his head, and Baz jerked away from them, but the stranger only lifted off his blindfold. Baz blinked in the sudden brightness, and let his eyes adjust to take in the appearance of his new captor.

The man in black was covered such that only the lower portion of his face was visible, and even at that only barely so. He knelt in front of Baz and started in on the bindings at his ankles.

“Who are you?” Baz demanded, schooling his voice into its usual sharp, sneering tone. It came out rather hoarse.

“No one,” said the man in black. He pulled forth a sword from his hip and carefully set the blade to the rope.

Baz glanced at the scene before him, which appeared to be a grotesque sort of tea party. The boulder was a pile of rubble at the side of a low, flat rock bearing two cups of cocoa.

“To think the poison was in your drink all along,” he mused aloud.

“They were both poisoned,” corrected the man in black, setting his attentions to the ties on Baz’s wrists. He sliced them, sheathed his sword, and tugged Baz up to his feet. “I’m immune. Took forever, and I nearly killed myself twice in the process. Dead useful now, though.”

Then the man in blank took Baz’s arm and yanked him brusquely off. The two men ran, toward what Baz did not know.

They ran for some time, until Baz, still aching from his last few days, stumbled, and forced their rest. The man in black allowed him to rest against a rock before they carried on.

“Catch your breath,” he barked.

Baz sneered. “I’m fine. It’s just I’ve been kidnapped and tied up, and I’m rather sore.”

“Suit yourself.”

The man in black leaned languidly against a rock opposite Baz, looking for all the world like some dashing rogue. He grinned a bitter grin as he looked Baz up and down.

Baz snarled at him. “Whatever ransom you desire, you’ll get it. There’s no need to mistreat me.”

The stranger’s foul smile turned down into a grimace. “Your promise is meaningless, Highness.”

Baz heaved a frustrated sigh. “Just know that Princess Agatha will be searching for me. She has all the kingdom’s resources—surely she’ll hunt you down with ease.”

The man in black’s expression—that of it that was visible, anyway—fell carefully neutral.

“You think your dearest love will save you?” the man in black asked.

Baz’s heart lurched. “I never said she was my dearest love.”

The man in black tilted his head. “You don’t love your fiancée?”

Baz stared the man down. This stranger who became his second kidnapper, and now dared to speak to Baz about love. “She knows I do not love her. And she does not love me. We are both bound to our duty.”

The man in black ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “A pity. To be married without knowing love.”

And then Baz was on his feet, staring down the man in black. He had a few inches on the stranger, and used them to his advantage, bearing down on his captor with his teeth bared.

“I’ve loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.”

Here, towering over this stranger with words ripping straight from his heart, Baz realized that the man in black’s eyes, shining out from beneath his mask, were blue. He felt sick to his stomach.

Those blue eyes narrowed. “Princes shouldn’t lie,” the man said.

Then he took Baz’s arm again, and they raced off across the landscape.

As they ran, Baz’s mind whirred.

The ground flying by beneath Baz’s weary feet went from flat rock to orange moss to vivid green grass. To one side, the ground fell away into a great, deep valley. It was green and serpentine as far as Baz could see. The stone path they’d followed continued down into the valley by way of a tremendous staircase.

Frustrated, Baz snatched his arm free from the man in black and forced them to a halt.

“I know who you are,” Baz hissed. He’d reached a possible conclusion only minutes ago, and truthfully he wasn’t completely certain. “Your cruelty is well-known.”

The man in black, ahead on the path, turned to him expectantly.

Baz clenched his teeth. It may have been from hunger and exhaustion that he felt as though he were about to be violently ill, but he suspected it was simply due to his assumption about his captor. He drew an unsteady breath, blood boiling in his veins.

“You’re the Dread Pirate Snow,” he hissed. “Admit it.”

And to his great horror, the stranger did.

He flashed Baz a wry smile. “You’re clever. What can I do for you?”

Hot, angry tears pricked at Baz’s eyes. He spoke around the great lump in his throat. “You can die slowly,” he whispered. “Cut into a thousand pieces.”

The Dread Pirate Snow crossed his arms. “Well, that’s hardly fair. What did I ever do to you?”

Baz bit down the grief he’d cradled since that horrible, shattering day. _“You killed my love,” _he said.

Snow did not move, only eyed Baz with interest. “I’ve killed loads of people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

A tear escaped down Baz’s cheek to the corner of his mouth. He let it be. “He was a farmhand,” Baz said, voice barely louder than a breath. His hands shook, and he made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “A brave, loving, beautiful idiot. With blue eyes.”

Snow said nothing.

Another hot tear slid from Baz’s eye. “He sought his family when your ship attacked. The Dread Pirate Snow never takes prisoners.”

Snow leaned, cavalier, against a fallen tree. “Can’t make exceptions. People will think I’ve gone soft.”

“How dare you mock my pain.”

“Life is pain,” Snow spat, and Baz was shocked to find that his voice sounded thick, as though he were having trouble. “Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

Baz swiped his sleeve across his cheeks and glowered.

Snow glanced away. “I might remember this farmhand of yours. It was, what—two years ago?”

Baz stared at the horizon and ignored him.

Snow went on. “You’ll be glat to know he died well. Didn’t blubber. He just said ‘please. Please, I need to live.’”

“Stop,” Baz whispered.

“No one’d ever said please,” Snow carried on. “I asked him what was so important.”

“_Stop,”_ Baz repeated. His heart clenched painfully.

The Dread Pirate Snow stared at him. “‘True love,’ he said.”

A sob tore from Baz’s throat. He pressed his fist to his mouth.

“Maybe it’s lucky I killed him,” Snow said. “So he didn’t have to see you wed the Princess.”

Baz tried as hard as he could, despite his tears, to flay Snow with his eyes.

Snow took a step nearer to him, staring him down. “He spoke of your promise to wait for him. How long after his death did you get engaged? Did you even wait until his body was cold?”

“_Stop.” _Baz growled at the Dread Pirate Snow. “I died that day.”

The sound of galloping hooves surprised them both. Snow turned to the crest of a nearby hill and watched a horde of Princess Agatha’s knights go by.

Baz took advantage of Snow’s distractedness. He eyed the immense stone staircase descending into the valley below them, and set his jaw.

“You can die too, for all I care,” he snarled, and shoved the Dread Pirate Snow down the stairs.

Snow tumbled down in a gratifying heap, cracking against the steps as he went. For a moment, Baz was lit up by a vintictive, angry satisfaction as he watched the man fall.

And then the mask and kerchief slipped from the Dread Pirate Snow’s head, and against the green grass and the grey stone Baz was shocked to see a flash of bright, bronze curls.

The sight knocked the wind out of him. Before he could even catch his breath, Baz threw himself down the valley as well, racing down the stairs as fast as his feet could carry him.

Snow crumpled at the bottom of the valley and lay there, unmoving, but Baz lacked the breath to call out to him. He stumbled his way down the rest of the stairs until he was close enough to drop to his knees at the other man’s side.

He reached out a hand and turned the man’s face toward him, feeling that soft, warm skin beneath his fingers.

Fresh tears spilled forth as Baz laid eyes on the undeniable freckled face of his one and only love.

“_Simon,_” he breathed, and was met with a slow, brilliant smile.

“Suppose I deserved that,” Simon murmured. “You all right?”

“All right?” Baz voice came out choked. “You’re _alive. _I’ve never been better. I could write you a sonnet right now.”

Simon grasped the front of Baz’s shirt and pulled him down. Baz covered Simon’s body with his own and buried his face in the warm crook of Simon’s neck. There was a mole there—Baz’s favourite. He pressed his lips to it.

“Told you we’d be together again,” Simon whispered, his nose pressed to Baz’s hair. “I wish you’d waited for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Baz murmured into Simon’s neck. “You were dead. The Mage came for me and said I had no choice.”

“Death can’t stop true love,” said Simon.

Baz could only nod. Then Simon nudged Baz’s face with his own, and Baz lifted to look down into Simon’s beautiful, boring blue eyes once more. Then all at once they surged together and kissed desperately, in the way that only reunited lovers can.

They both tasted of salt. Sea-spray and tears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Pirate Snow, the Wavering Wood, and a second farewell.

Hand in hand again at last, Simon and Baz raced along the bottom of the ravine. The dark silhouettes of knights on horseback lined the ridge at the top of the hill they’d come from.

Even at such a great distance, Baz recognized with distaste the man leading the party.

“It’s the Mage himself,” he spat, and gripped Simon’s hand tighter. “Loathsome man.”

“Let’s spare you the pleasure of his company, then,” said Simon. “This way.”

Up ahead loomed a tremendous, dense forest. Simon pulled Baz toward the dark edge of the trees.

Baz dragged them to a stop. “The Wavering Wood? We’ll never survive.”

“Bollocks. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”

Simon flashed him a crooked grin and led them onward.

The Wavering Wood was improbably dark, and dim, and dripping with lichen and great thick vines. Muddy dirt squelched beneath their boots, and the whole thing reeked of smoke and rot.

Everything was of such magnitude that Baz felt uncannily small in the depths of the trees. This forested world was too big for him, and full of too many dangers.

Simon led them cautiously on, eyes narrowed and chin jutting out.

In the far distance, something screeched.

“It’s not so bad,” Simon said.

Baz raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Simon shrugged. “Wouldn’t suggest we settle down here, but the trees are nice.”

Baz rolled his eyes, but stepped in nearer to Simon all the same. He clutched Simon’s arm.

They trod on, stepping gingerly over rotting logs and slimy patches of fungus.

From beneath the mulchy ground, there came a curious sound, rather like a great, mechanical puffing.

The men looked to each other in wonderment, and seconds later found their question answered.

A pillar of fire shot up from the ground, roaring and blazing hot, right at Baz’s side.

Baz shouted and leapt back, and brought with him a lick of flame crawling up his trouser leg. He stumbled back in fright, feeling his flesh singe—and Simon leapt to action, crouching down and batting down the flame with his sleeve.

When both the column of fire and his leg were put out, Baz let out a shaking breath. Simon wrapped an arm around him.

“You all right? Burnt at all?”

Baz fought to regain his composure. It was only a little fire, after all. His leg stung, but worse was how his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Fine,” he snapped.

Simon laced their fingers together once more.

They carried on with greater caution, listening for the telltale sound that preceded the shooting flames and leaping back in plenty of time to avoid injury.

“Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?” Simon said. His expression was serious, but Baz knew from the light in Simon’s eyes that some part of him was relishing in the adventure of it all.

Baz was _not _enjoying it the way that Simon was, but he was elated nonetheless to just be holding Simon’s hand after grieving him for two long years. As such, he kept very close, and took in as much as he could of Simon’s determined gaze and bravery.

Simon quickly grew tired of ducking under slimy vines. His sword proved useful in cutting them away, so he and Baz could pass through with ease.

Baz filled him in on the happenings of the last two years—the farm, his family, Princess Agatha and the engagement—and Simon listened with an aching heart.

Then, Baz said “Tell me, Simon—how have you come to be the Dread Pirate Snow?”

Simon chewed his lip. It was a long story.

Baz went on. “Snow has been marauding twenty years, and you’ve been gone less than three.”

Simon scratched the back of his neck and squeezed Baz’s hand. “Well, my ship was attacked. That much you know. What I told you before—about saying please? That was true. I guess it intrigued Snow. I told him all about you—about how you’re an arse and so bloody handsome, and how you play the lute.”

Baz’s lips twitched into a smile. “Go on.”

Simon slashed down another tangle of vines. “Snow listened to me, and then he said I could be his valet. ‘Try it for a day,’ he said. ‘I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’” Another swing of his sword, another slippery vine fallen away. “A whole year, he said that. Every day. ‘Goodnight, Simon, sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’”

Baz, the taller of the two, helped Simon clamber over a particularly massive and fungus-covered log.

“And then?” Baz asked. He fell back into step at Simon’s side.

Simon shrugged. “So, I worked for him. And I tried to learn as much as possible—whatever anyone would teach me. Fencing and history and sailing…”

“And developing immunity to deadly poisons,” Baz said.

“Yeah, exactly. Eventually, Snow and I became all right friends. And then something odd happened.”

“Yes?”

Simon’s eyes had a faraway look. Baz maneuvered them around a puddle of mud.

“Snow’d gotten so rich from plundering and all, he wanted to retire. So he told me his secret.”

Baz looked at Simon. Simon smiled back.

“He told me, ‘I am not the Dread Pirate Snow.’”

Baz frowned.

Snow huffed a laugh. “That bloke inherited the ship from the Dread Pirate Snow before him, and he said I’d inherit it next. The real Dread Pirate Snow’s been basking on some island for years. Seems the name’s the important part. No one would surrender to the Dread Pirate Simon.”

Baz gaped. “How does that _work? _Does no one notice that the most famous pirate on the seas gets a new face every few years?”

“We got a brand new crew, and the old Snow kept on as first mate. Called me Snow long enough that everyone took it to be true, left when he was ready, and I’ve been Snow ever since, yeah?”

Baz felt like laughing. He pulled Simon into his arms and held him tight, face buried in soft bronze curls.

“I know,” Simon murmured against Baz’s shoulder. “Can hardly believe it myself, sometimes.”

Over Simon’s shoulder, Baz’s eye caught movement.

Something very large slunk by, half-hidden by trees. Faintly, Baz heard a deep, gutteral growling.

“There’s something there,” he whispered in Simon’s ear. “Don’t make any quick movements.”

Simon pulled himself slowly from Baz’s embrace and held up his sword. It was streaked with green from lichen.

“Where?” Simon whispered, calculating eyes scanning the trees around them.

“It was there.” Baz pointed.

The Wavering Wood was uncannily still and eerily quiet.

Baz’s hands grasped the air at his sides. How he longed for a weapon.

A long, charged minute later, Simon lowered his sword.

“It must have gone,” Simon said.

And then something gigantic slammed into the both of them.

A huge foot on his chest forced the air from Baz’s lungs. He coughed, half crushed, and the great thing snarled hot and wet in his face.

Simon gave a shout and Baz’s eye caught the flash of his sword thrusting upward. It caught the beast, which bellowed and lurched back.

Baz scrambled to his feet, gasping. Simon knelt at his side, red-dipped sword held out before him.

The chimaera’s furious breaths were cloudy and visible in the cold, damp wood.

“Keep behind me,” Simon hissed.

“I can defend myself,” Baz snapped, though he knew he couldn’t. He noticed with a jolt that Simon’s shoulder was torn—tawny skin and dark blood shone through the ragged flaps of his shirt. Simon winced as he hauled himself to his feet.

The chimaera hunched, monstrous eyes set on its prey, and leapt at Simon. He howled as the creature clamped its jaws on his wounded shoulder, and the impact knocked the sword from his hand. Simon hit the ground again, the chimaera on him and ripping at his flesh.

Baz was numb with fear and frozen for a moment too long, but his body caught up to the situation before his mind did and he found himself diving for the dropped sword. His wrapped his hands around the hilt and hoisted it up, and before he could think too hard about anything he sank the blade deep into the chimaera’s neck.

The beast roared.

Acting on instinct, Baz yanked the sword up and down, making messy work of the wound and hopefully doing as much damage as possible. The chimaera dropped to the ground, gushing black blood, and Simon dragged himself painfully out from under it.

As if by magic, like the fates themselves had ordered it, there came the puffing sound that preceded the Wavering Wood’s most incendiary horror.

Baz grasped Simon’s unhurt arm and pulled him back just in time to see the whimpering chimaera go up in flames.

Simon and Baz looked on quietly while the chimaera burned. Simon fought to catch his breath. Baz couldn’t find it in himself to move.

As the blaze flickered out, Baz offered his hand and helped Simon to his feet. Simon, bloodied and weary, leaned into Baz’s chest and rested there a moment. Then, wordlessly, they set off again.

The Wavering Wood was well manageable—now that they knew its secrets.

They navigated it on calm alert, communicating through their clasped hands. Simon’s shoulder bled through his shirt and stuck the fabric to his skin halfway down his arm. Baz could smell all the blood.

Perhaps an hour later they reached the edge of the Wood, where the trees thinned and the earth dried and up ahead the weak sunlight caught on the still surface of a river.

“We did it,” Baz whispered.

Simon gave a tired smile. “Was that so terrible?” he quipped.

Baz growled at him, exhausted and giddy, and leaned his forehead in Simon’s hair.

Simon nudged Baz’s face with his own. Obliging, Baz lowered his mouth to Simon’s, but barely had their lips touched when a noisy crash of horses and men burst into the clearing. Before they could so much as blink, Baz and Simon found themselves encircled.

Atop the horse directly before them, and smiling in that foul way that he so excelled at, was Baz’s least favourite man alive.

“Surrender,” barked the Mage, eyes flicking up and down over Simon.

“You wish to surrender to us?” said Simon. “We accept.”

The Mage tilted his head as he looked upon Baz. “Prince Basilton,” he oozed. “I am greatly relieved to see you here in one piece. Come, return with me to the castle.”

“I’m afraid not,” Baz replied. “I cannot wed the princess.”

The Mage glanced at his men, assembled around him. “Our poor prince is misled. How troubling this kidnapping must have been. No matter—let us take this villain who has held Basilton hostage.”

“Simon didn’t kidnap me,” Baz spat, blood boiling. “I was kidnapped by some numpties, now dead.”

“I am no fool, your grace, this fiend wears pirate’s clothes.”

At Baz’s side, Simon hovered his hand over the hilt of his sword.

“Young man,” the Mage said, glaring down his nose at Simon. “Do you know the punishment for abducting members of the royal family?”

A muscle moved in Simon’s jaw. Baz tightened his fingers on Simon’s.

The Mage nodded his head, and the circle of men closed in on foot. Baz stared down the length of a dozen crossbows.

“Death,” continued the Mage, and Baz was ripped back to that darkest day when Simon died. He wavered, lightheaded.

“No sense delaying it,” said the Mage, and two of the armed men stepped nearer. “For kidnapping Princess Agatha’s betrothed, I sentence this man—”

“Stop,” Baz breathed, voice failing him. He tried again, louder: “_Stop!_”

The Mage looked on.

Baz squeezed Simon’s hand and took a step toward the Mage. “I’ll go with you. I’ll return, this moment—if you leave him be. Just let him go unharmed.”

Simon yanked on Baz’s hand. Baz stared at the Mage, begging him and challenging him all at once.

The Mage considered this arrangement.

“Very well,” he conceded. His men lowered their crossbows.

To look at Simon now would have been to break his heart all over, so Baz looked only to the Mage as he made his demands. Simon’s warm hands clutched pleadingly at his arm, but Baz ignored them.

“This man is a sailor of the Dread Pirate Snow’s,” Baz went on. Each word fell heavy on his heart. “Swear to return him to his ship.”

The Mage sneered and clenched his teeth. He huffed. “I swear, it shall be done,” he agreed.

The Mage turned to his men, muttering, and Baz turned at last to Simon.

There was hurt and betrayal in Simon’s blue gaze.

“I mourned you once,” Baz murmured, “and it destroyed me. I could not bear it if you died again.”

Simon was shaking his head, eyes bright and pooling with frustrated tears. “Baz—you—”

A hand gripped the collar of Baz’s shirt, and Baz was hauled onto horse behind one of the Mage’s men. He managed barely a glance back at Simon’s beautiful, distraught face—and then he was galloping away, charging back to the kingdom, to the future he so nearly escaped, and away from the improbably returned ghost of the love of his life.

* * *

Simon watched in anguish as armed men tore Baz away from him.

Surely Baz knew that this wouldn’t be the end of it. There would be no justice, not for the prince’s abductor.

The moment Baz rode out of sight, the remaining men closed in on Simon once more, crossbows wound and aimed.

The Mage himself leered down at Simon.

The man to the Mage’s right spoke. “Shall we get the boy to his ship, Davy?”

Something sparked in the back of Simon’s mind.

The Mage grinned. “Actually, I’ve a better idea.”

Someone seized Simon’s arms and wrested them behind his back.

“Your name is Davy,” Simon mused aloud.

The Mage nodded, frowning.

Simon allowed himself a wry smile. “Someone is looking for you,” he said, just before the blow to the back of his head.


End file.
